Roused by this interruption, she begged to know his commands.
He finished his speech to himself, before he took any notice of hers, and then, very good humouredly, asked what she wanted.
‘May I hope,’ she cried, ‘that you have the goodness to bring me some answer to my note?’
‘What note, my pretty lady?’
‘That which you were so obliging as to undertake delivering for me to Miss Arbe?’
He stared and looked amazed, repeating, ‘Note?—what note?’ but when, at last, she succeeded in making him recollect the circumstance, his countenance fell, and leaning against the back of his chair, while his stick, and a parcel which he held under his arm, dropt to the ground: ‘I am frighted to death,’ he cried, ‘for fear it’s that I tore last night, to light my little lamp!’
Then, emptying every thing out of his pockets; ‘I can soon tell, however,’ he continued, ‘because I put t’other half back, very carefully; determining to examine what it was in the morning; for I was surprised to find a folded note in my pocket: but I thought of it no more, afterwards, from that time to this.’
Collecting, then, the fragments; ‘Here,’ he continued, ‘is what is left.—’
Ellis immediately recognized her hand-writing.
‘I protest,’ cried he, in great confusion, ‘I have never above twice or thrice, perhaps, in my life, been more ashamed! And once was when I was so unfortunate as to burn a gentleman’s stick; a mighty curious sort of cane, that I was unluckily holding in my hand, just as the fire wanted stirring; and not much thinking, at that moment, by great ill luck, of what I was about, I poked it into the middle of the grate; and not a soul happened to take notice of it, any more than myself, till it made a prodigious crackling; and all that was not consumed split into splinters. I never was so out of countenance in my life. I could not make a single apology. So they all thought I did not mind it! Don’t you think so, too, now? For I am very sorry I tore your note, I assure you!’
Ellis readily accepted his excuse.
‘Well, and another time,’ he continued, ‘I had a still worse accident. I was running after an ill-natured gnat, that had stung a lady, with my hand uplifted to knock him down, and, very unluckily, after he had led me a dance all over the room, he darted upon the lady’s cheek; and, in my hurry to crush him, I gave her such a smart slap of the face, that it made her quite angry. I was never so shocked since I was born. I ran away as fast as I could; for I had not a word to say for myself.’
He then began relating a third instance; but Ellis interrupted him; and again desired to know his business.
‘Good! true!’ cried he, ‘you do well to put me in mind, for talking of one thing makes a man sometimes forget another. It’s what has happened to me before now. One i’n’t always upon one’s guard. I remember, once, my poor cousin was disappointed of a chaperon, to go with her to a ball, after being dressed out in all the best things that she had in the world, and looking better than ever she did before in her life, as she told me herself; and she asked me to run to a particular friend, to beg that she would accompany her, instead of the one that had failed her; so I set off, as fast as possible, for I saw that she was in a prodigious fidget; not much caring, I suppose, to be dizened out, and to put on her best looks, to be seen by nobody but her papa and me; which is natural enough, for her papa always thinks her pretty; and as to me, I don’t doubt but she may be so neither; though I never happened to take much notice of it.’
‘Well, Sir, to our business?’ cried Ellis.
‘Well, when I arrived at this friend of my cousin’s, I met there a friend of my own, and one that I had not seen for fifteen years. I had so prodigious much to say to him, that it put all my poor cousin’s fine clothes and best looks out of my head! and, I am quite ashamed to own it, but we never once ceased our confabulation, my old friend and I, till, to my great surprise, supper was brought upon the table! I was in extreme confusion, indeed, for, just then, somebody asked me how my cousin did; which made me recollect my commission. I told it, in all haste, to the lady, and begged, so urgently, that she would oblige my cousin, who would never forgive me for not delivering my message sooner, if I carried a refusal, that, at last, I persuaded her to comply; but I was so abashed by my forgetfulness, that I never thought of mentioning the ball. So that when she arrived, all in her common gear, my poor cousin, who supposed that she had only waited, for her hair-dressers and shoe-makers, looked at her with as much amazement as if she had never seen her before in her life. And the lady was prodigiously piqued not to be received better; so that they were upon the very point of a quarrel, when they discovered that all the fault was mine! But by the time that they came to that part, I was so out of countenance, you would have judged that I had done it all on purpose! I was frightened out of my wits: and I made off as fast as possible; and when I got to my own room, there was not a chair nor a table that I did not put against the door, for fear of their bursting the lock; they were both of them in such prodigious passions, to know why I had served them so. And yet, the whole time, I was as innocent of it as you are; for I never once thought about either of them! never in my life!’
Again Ellis enquired what were his commands, frankly avowing, that she was too much engrossed by the melancholy state of her own affairs, to attend to any other.
‘What, then, I’m afraid those poor people a’n’t paid yet?’
‘A poorer person, Sir, as I believe, and hope,’ answered she, sighing, ‘than any amongst them, is unpaid also! They would not, else, have this claim upon your compassion.’
‘What, have you got any bad debts yourself?’
‘Enquire, Sir, of Miss Arbe; and if you extend your benevolence to representing what is due to my creditors, it may urge her to consider what is due to me.’
‘Does any body owe you any money, then?’
‘Yes, Sir; and as much as will acquire all I myself owe to others.’
‘What is the reason, then, that they don’t pay you?’
‘The want of knowing, Sir, the value of a little to the self-supported and distressed! The want, in short, of consideration.’
‘Bad! bad!—that i’n’t right!’ cried he: ‘I’ll put an end to it, however;’ rising hastily: ‘I’ll make my cousin go to every one of them. They must be taught what they should do. They mean very well; but that’s of no use if they don’t act well too. And if my cousin don’t go to them, I’ll go myself.’
He then quitted the house, in the greatest haste; leaving behind him his parcel and his stick, which were not perceived till his departure.
Ellis knew not whether to lament or to rejoice at this promised interference; but, wholly overset by these new and unexpected obstacles to providing for her immediate subsistence, she had no resource but to await with patience the effect of his efforts.
The following day, while anxiously expecting him, she was surprised by another visit from Miss Arbe; who, with an air as sprightly as her own was dejected, cried, ‘Well, I hope this new plan will make an end of all our difficulties. You have had time enough, now, to consider of it; for I have such a little minute always to stay, that I can never pretend to discuss an hundred pros and cons. Though, indeed, I flatter myself, ’tis impossible your scruples should still hold out. But where in the world have you hid your harp? I have been peeping about for it ever since I came in. And my music? Have you looked it over? Is it not delightful? I long to play it with you. I tried it twenty times by myself, but I could not manage it. But every thing’s so much easier when one tries it together, that I dare say we shall conquer all those horrid hard passages at once. But where’s your harp?—Tell me, however, first, what you decide about our plan; for when once we begin playing, there’s no thinking of any thing else.’
‘If it be the concert you mean, Madam, I can only repeat my thanks; and that I can never, except to those ladies who are, or who would venture to become my pupils, consent to be a performer.’
‘What a thousand pities, my dear Miss Ellis, to throw away your charming talents, through that terrible diffidence! However, I can’t give you up so easily. I must positively bring you round;—only if we stop now, we shan’t have a moment for those horrid hard passages. So where’s my music? And where have you conjured your harp?’
The music, she answered, she had neither seen nor heard of; the harp, useless since no longer necessary, she had sent home.
The smiles and sprightly airs of Miss Arbe now instantly vanished, and were succeeded by undisguised displeasure. To send back, without consulting her, an instrument that could never have been obtained but through her recommendation, she called an action the most extraordinary: she was too much hurried, however, to enter into any discussion; and must drive home immediately, to enquire what that eternal blunderer, her cousin Giles, had done, not only with her note, but with her music; which was of so much consequence, that his whole life could not make her amends, if it had met with any accident.
Ellis had been so far from purporting to cast herself into any dependence upon Miss Arbe, that, upon this unjust resentment, she suffered her to run down stairs, without offering any apology. Conceiving, however, that the parcel, left by Mr Giles, might possibly contain the music in question, she followed her with it into the shop; where she had the mortification of hearing her say, ‘Miss Matson, as to your debts, you must judge for yourself. I can’t pretend to be responsible for the credit of every body that solicits my patronage.’
With the silent displeasure of contempt, Ellis put the parcel into her hands, and retreated.
‘Why how’s this? here is my note unopened,’ cried Miss Arbe.
Ellis, returning, said that she had not seen any note.
Miss Arbe declared that she had placed it, herself, within the pack-thread that was tied round the music; but it appeared that Mr Giles had squeezed it under the brown paper cover, whence it had not been visible.
‘And I wrote it,’ cried Miss Arbe, ‘purposely that you might be ready with your answer; and to beg that you would not fail to study the passages I marked with a pencil, that we might know how to finger them when we met. However, I shall certainly never trust that monstrous tiresome creature with another commission.’
She then, accompanied by Miss Bydel, who now entered the shop, and invited herself to be of the party, followed Ellis up stairs, to read the note, and talk the subject over.
From this note, Ellis discovered that the plan was entirely altered: the professor was wholly omitted, and she was placed herself at the head of a new enterprize. It was to be conducted under the immediate and avowed patronage of Miss Arbe, upon a scheme of that lady’s own suggestion and arrangement, which had long been projecting.
A subscription was to be raised amongst all the ladies of any fashion, or consequence, in or near Brighthelmstone, who, whether as mothers, aunts, guardians, or friends, had the care of any young ladies possessing musical talents. Lady Kendover had consented that her name should be placed at the head of the list, as soon as any other lady, of sufficient distinction to be named immediately after her ladyship, should come forward. The concert was to be held, alternately, at the houses of the principal subscribers, whose apartments, and inclinations, should best be suited to the purpose. The young ladies were to perform, by rotation or selection, according as the lady directress of the night, aided by Miss Arbe’s counsel, should settle. A small band was to be engaged, that the concert might be opened with the dignity of an overture; that the concertos might be accompanied; and that the whole might conclude with the eclat of a full piece. Ellis, for whose advancement, and in whose name, the money was to be raised, that was to pay herself, the other artists, and all the concomitant expences, was to play upon the harp, and to sing an air, in the course of every act.
This plan was far less painful to her feelings than that which had preceded it, since the concert was to be held in private houses, and young ladies of fashion were themselves to be performers; but, though her thanks were grateful and sincere, her determination was immoveable. ‘It is not,’ she said, ‘believe me, Madam, from false notions of pride, that, because I, alone, am to be paid, I decline so honourable a method of extricating myself from my present difficulties: my pride, on the contrary, urges me to every exertion that may lead to self-dependence: but who is permitted to act by the sole guidance of their own perceptions and notions? who is so free,—I might better, perhaps, say so desolate,—as to consider themselves clear of all responsibility to the opinions of others?’
‘Of others? Why do you belong, then, really, to any body, Mrs Ellis?’ cried Miss Bydel.
‘They must be pretty extraordinary people,’ said Miss Arbe, contemptuously dropping her eyes, ‘if they can disapprove a scheme that will shew your talents to so much advantage; besides bringing you into the notice of so many people of distinction.’ Then, rising, she would forbear, she said, to trouble her any more; inform Lady Kendover of her refusal; and let Lady Aurora know that her farther interference would be unacceptable.
At the name of Lady Aurora, Ellis entreated some explanation; but Miss Arbe, without deigning to make any, hurried to her carriage.
Miss Bydel, pouring forth a volley of interrogatories upon the intentions of Ellis, her expectations, and her means, would have remained; but she reaped so little satisfaction that, tired, at length, herself, she retreated; though not till she had fully caught the attention of Ellis, by the following words: ‘I have been very ready, Mrs Ellis, to serve you in your distress; but I hope you won’t forget that I always intended to be disbursed by your music teaching: so, if you don’t do that any more, I can’t see why you won’t do this; that you may pay me.’
She then took leave.
Ellis was far more grieved than offended by this reprimand, which, however gross, did not seem unjust. To judge me, she cried, by my present appearance, my resisting this offer must be attributed to impertinence, ingratitude, or folly. And how can I expect to be judged but by what is seen, what is known? Who is willing to be so generous, who is capable to be so noble, as to believe, or even to conceive, that lonely distress, like mine, may call for respect and forbearance, as well as for pity and assistance?—Oh Lady Aurora!—sole charm, sole softener of my sufferings!—Oh liberal, high-minded Harleigh!—why are there so few to resemble you? And why must your virtues and your kindness, for me, be null? Why am I doomed to seek—so hardly—the support that flies me,—yet to fly the consolation that offers?
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